Life Without Effort
by imsanehonest
Summary: Not many took the time to actually listen to the mythical harmonies that appeared when he played, to watch him as he carefully created resounding patterns of sound, to experience the marvel of Gregory House making music.


**Title:** Life Without Effort  
**Summary:** _Not many took the time to actually listen to the mythical harmonies that appeared when he played, to watch him as he carefully created resounding patterns of sound, to experience the marvel of Gregory House making music._  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Woe is me, etc. tear  
**Author's Notes**: For fraternizing (on LJ). Any concrit is most welcomed and thank you for your time!

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**Life Without Effort**

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_I think I should have no other mortal wants, if I could always have plenty of music. It seems to infuse strength into my limbs, and ideas into my brain. Life seems to go on without effort, when I am filled with music. - George Eliot_

---

At a certain point in their careers at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, every doctor, nurse and medical student to pass through its hollowed halls learned that Gregory House had the tendency to claim ownership over any and all pianos within his vicinity, immediate or otherwise.

Not that there were many at the man's disposal, but should the mood strike him and if a piano was within hobbling distance, House was known to abandon all work (or all attempts to make it seem as if he was working) and strike out, hunting down the nearest set of ivories and playing until whatever inner urge that called him to the activity was satisfied.

Most took no notice of the habit, writing it off as another one of the doctor's odd quirks that was best left ignored. Better to let the man play with his piano than risk him finding an opportunity to unleash his verbal barbs on whoever dared to protest.

But there was something special about Greg House playing the piano. Something otherworldly, stirring and almost magical in the way he expertly stroked the keys, in how he moved people with the delicate combination of notes. Of course, not many took the time to actually listen to the harmonies that appeared when he played, to watch him as he carefully created resounding patterns of sound, to experience the marvel of Gregory House making music.

But when they did, when people took the time to really listen, they were allowed a glimpse of something miraculous.

---

Cameron had managed to witness it relatively early on during her stay at PPTH, far less prone to accepting so readily the rumors she heard about House's character. Selfish and harsh he might have been, but he wasn't cruel, wasn't completely without morals, and wasn't incapable of producing something good and beautiful, despite the common belief to the contrary.

Although it would have been a lie to say that she wasn't surprised at what she found the night that Ed left Elise.

Cameron had watched as the betrayed husband remained just long enough to know that his wife would live before walking out forever, unwilling to stay with a woman he loved because of one foolish mistake that had nearly killed her.

But Elise had been fortunate. The disease faded and she lived. She was granted life at only one price: her husband.

_"I can't help it. Part of me, a big part of me… can't handle that. Doesn't want her to get better. Does that make me a terrible person?"_

_"Yes."_

And he was.

Cameron didn't want to think it. Wished that she could forgive him for it, that she could understand how a man who had loved his wife only a few hours ago could question it now because of something as mundane as sex.

But fidelity wasn't just about who Elise had slept with, the times she had let him down or the lies she had told. It was about love. About how she loved him and how he used to love her. Nothing should have been capable of weakening the bond they shared. That was what made marriage so beautiful, it becoming a representation of that connection and the understanding that it was eternal, never to be shaken in the face of any hardship.

Cameron knew that if her husband was still alive, that if she had the opportunity to forgive him for every wrong he had committed (and, yes, there had been plenty of those), she would do so without hesitation. Would run to him, arms open, inviting and loving, ready to begin again.

But her husband wasn't alive, and she had been denied the opportunity to forgive.

Ed simply didn't understand how fortunate he was. Couldn't contemplate that his faithlessness had all but shattered Cameron's delicate understanding of romance, her barely sustained sense of splendor in love.

Ed had taken something beautiful away from her, and Cameron didn't know if she was capable of getting it back.

It had been with these thoughts circling in her mind that she stumbled across House as she was leaving for the night, dejectedly making her way through the front lobby to see him playing in a carefully put away corner, intent on his art.

And it was then that Cameron was reassured that there was still some beauty in the world.

Because that was what he was. Gregory House, body arched carefully over the baby grand, eyes closed, body gently swaying in time with the motion of his fingers, was beautiful.

It wasn't exactly him, this extraordinary and beautiful thing, not really. House would never be a classic handsome hero, but there was something decidedly remarkable about him now, in this unguarded moment. Something about the light that exposed the elegance in him, with all of his harsh edges and awkward angles faded, the lines on his face smoothed over and the malicious glint in his eye hidden.

Cameron thought that for the first time she was seeing him for who he truly was, consumed and distracted by the music, every inch of him on display, raw and powerful and brilliant, but also terribly vulnerable.

To see House as he truly was to see him at his most defenseless, his most stunning.

"You aren't crying again, are you?" House asked in a decidedly annoyed tone, startling Cameron out of staring. He didn't cease with his playing, not even bothering to lift his eyes away from the keys. "I can only be passably sensitive once a week or else my head combusts, so if you are you'd better go sob on someone else."

She continued to examine House, unabashedly, still marveling over his care and form, barely noticing the melodies that he was producing in her attempt to take in everything she could of him.

"No," she said slowly, calmly. In no rush to cease her perusal. "I'm not crying."

"Good," he replied shortly, frowning in concentration as he focused on a complex section of the piece. "Go anyway." He looked up for an instant, sending her a smirk. "You're doing clinic duty for me tomorrow and I don't want you falling asleep while performing my job."

Cameron sighed.

He might have been capable of great beauty, obviously had the ability to bring forth those very ideals that Cameron had been stripped of through Ed's carelessness, but he was still House.

She shouldered her bag and gave her boss a small nod, saying "Goodnight, House," before striding out of the building, fulfilled and lacking all at once.

He wasn't what she was looking for. Not really.

But it would take her much longer to realize that.

---

It had taken Chase more time, but then Chase needed time to build his faith in people. He needed even more to tear that faith down.

It took years of lies, disappointment and heartbreak to manage that one.

When he came across House playing it had been a month after killing a woman and dooming her family to squalor, by which point Chase had thoroughly lost all conviction in his God, his father and himself.

It was hard, to believe in a God who always let you down, who never answered prayers or offered some holy signal to indicate that He was even listening. It was difficult, to trust in a father who had never been there and had never allowed Chase the chance to try, even at the end. And it was impossible for a man to have confidence in anyone when he had been taught to expect nothing from those around him, especially himself.

And this certainty was only affirmed when he killed a good woman.

Oh, he hadn't pulled any plugs or triggers, but that didn't change the fact that had he not been so wrapped up in his grief for a man who had rarely been anything more than a signature at the bottom of a birthday card, she would still be alive.

And, for better or worse, Chase would never be able to forget that.

Because Kayla really had been a good woman. Understanding and sweet, reliable and hardworking, a good mother to her children and a good sister to Sam.

Sam, her hapless brother who was now saddled with the task of caring for her two girls.

He would do the best he could, of course, but anyone could see that Sam wasn't meant to be a parent. Was incapable of handling the responsibilities gracefully, would flounder at providing a steady hand and a warm heart.

But Kayla. Chase had no doubt she had been everything a parent was supposed to. Supportive and encouraging, hardworking and kind, with just enough discipline to keep her children in line, but not so much so as to make them feel as if they were ever anything but loved.

Except now she wouldn't be there, would never have the opportunity to continue being a mother. Her two girls would grow up without her, not even signatures at the bottom of cards to comfort them.

Chase found it hard to have faith in anything when he had condemned innocents to a fate he had spent a lifetime trying to escape.

_"My dad died. Lung cancer. I saw him a couple of months before it happened, we never talked about it."_

_"I'm sorry your father died, but it has nothing-"_

_"He never even told me he was sick. I wish he had. It wou- You're going to die. Alone. Thousand of miles from your children, you don't want to do that to them."_

At least there had been that. The girls had been allowed to watch their mother die, permitted a few extra weeks to remember her by, because of him.

Hardly an achievement to boast about.

Since her death Chase had thought of little except of what he had done, not only to Kayla, but also to her family.

As such he had been disgusted with himself as he flung open the chapel doors, aware of House's strange pastime of seeking out pianos and instantly heading towards the closest. He was looking for his boss at Cuddy's behest, not wishing to invoke the Dean's wrath in addition to House's.

And he was completely focused on this task until he had heard the music.

It wasn't a complex piece, not something that would require a master to perform, but it wasn't the notes alone that captured him. The man that produced the sound was a large part of its wonder, House's back to him further into the room, to the left of the altar.

It wasn't House's mere presence that made the music so remarkable, so undeniably potent and extraordinary, but also his complete absorption in the task. How Chase could all but see the music start in the diagnostician's spine and flow its way upward, the notes not originating from the piano but rather from the man, being extracted from somewhere within him and then forced outward through his fingertips.

When Chase saw House playing the piano, in that instant he felt as if he was seeing a small piece of God.

Then he remembered that he didn't, couldn't, believe in God anymore.

"House," he said, walking further into the church, brandishing the patient file he had in-hand. "Cuddy's given us a new patient."

"No," House muttered, attentions still focused on the ivories beneath his fingers. "Cuddy's given _you_ a new patient."

"Well, yeah," Chase returned, finally reaching the altar. "But it's for Diagnostics."

"That's funny," his boss replied, giving an exaggerated frown. "For just having killed someone, Cuddy sure is giving you a lot of responsibility, making you the figurehead of my department and all."

Chase sighed, making an effort not to stare at House's hands as they danced over the keys, still able to see the inner force that drove the doctor's fingers, guiding his movements. "I just picked up the file, House."

The older man rolled his eyes. "Well then give it back and tell her that I'm not going to take a boring case just so we can nurture your delicate and broken ego."

Chase tore his gaze away from the piano, throwing House a confounded look. "What?"

"The file. It's got a purple tag." He nodded, indicating to said tag. "Means it's cancer. And since it came from Cuddy and not Wilson, she hasn't let him look at it yet, which means that it's probably average, dull." He brought his concentration back to the instrument. "She's trying to make you feel better. Ease you back into things, make sure you don't have the yeps."

Chase had stopped paying attention, having turned back to the demonstration of pure intrinsic aptitude that was House's playing, the wonderful spectacle of his concocting the simple composition.

Nothing could inspire that sort of talent, nothing could have placed that ability within House if not God.

"The what?" he asked at last, still distracted.

House heaved an annoyed sigh, still playing. "Doesn't matter, because I'm not taking it and she can't make me." He gave another bob of his head, gesturing towards the door. "Scamper along now. No killing any more patients until I get back, or else I'll make you do the paperwork instead of Cameron."

Reluctantly, knowing House wouldn't tolerate his presence much longer, Chase pulled himself away from the piano and left the chapel, a small portion of the faith he had lost restored.

A God who would give a man like House a gift so spectacular as what he had just witnessed might forgive Chase for what he had done, might still believe that he could be redeemed. And if there was a God out there who wouldn't give up on Chase, Chase wouldn't give up on Him.

At least not yet.

---

Foreman hadn't wanted to see that House was capable of anything other than callousness.

After all, Foreman never went looking for the miraculous, although he would acknowledge such a happening readily enough should he come across it. Typically, however, the neurologist accepted the world for what it was, nothing more, nothing less. Similarly, Foreman accepted House for what he was. Cruel, vindictive and mean, devoid of human compassion and decency with only his pride and skill acting as his moral compass.

Nothing more, nothing less.

This was not a very comforting philosophy, but it suited Foreman well enough, and he had never seen the need for anything more.

And then he almost died.

Then some comfort would have been nice. Something solid, concrete and definite to give him hope and reassurance as he felt his life slipping through his fingers.

Instead he had gotten his father.

_"It's easy for you, isn't it? As long as you believe I'm going to a better place, dying ain't so bad."_

_"I don't want you to be afraid."_

_"If I'm not afraid if dying, what the hell should I be afraid of, Dad?"_

_"I thought you believed."_

_"I did. I'm not so sure anymore."_

And that was the sole comfort that Foreman was allowed during his dying days. The reassurance that there was this mysterious 'better place' that he might be permitted to enter, if he was judged fit.

Never mind the life he had made for himself, the decades of hard work and dedication he had devoted to rising above all of the expectations that had been given to him. What did this life matter, what significance would it ever have, if there was always something better to be had?

There were no guarantees with the afterlife. No contracts signed that offered any assurances, no polices or promises. Nothing concrete, nothing sure.

Foreman needed firmly drawn lines, clear evidence and proof of this 'better place.' There would be no blind leaps of faith from him, not when there was so much at stake.

No, Foreman preferred facts to appealing fictions, sought out reality instead of comforting lies. Truth could be harsh, but it was always definite, always exact and precise, and would never let you down.

But none of that would matter to Rodney. A man of such faith would never be able to accept his son's desperate dependency on science, and for that he would always view his son as a disappointment.

Decades of schooling, self-sufficient in every way, a neurologist with a fellowship inside the most challenging Diagnostics Department in the country, and Foreman was a disappointment.

Not exactly the thoughts he had been hoping for during his final hours.

But Foreman hadn't died, and months later, once the shock and wonder of the near-death had passed, he was forced to live with this newly revealed inadequacy.

Not that the neurologist made a habit of measuring himself by other's standards. He knew that his own expectations were high enough to more than satisfy anyone else whose opinion really mattered. But the small piece of Foreman that he thought he had crushed utterly, the one that still urgently sought approval, that knew he had so much to atone for, so many reasons to prove everybody wrong, was screaming.

Why wasn't his father proud of him?

Not that it mattered. These were petty and childish concerns, ones that Foreman had long since out-grown. Almost dying simply had a way of shaking a man, of making him reevaluate a life that needed no further contemplation.

Foreman was fine, secure with who he was and how he had become that way, and needed no reassurance of any sort to affirm these beliefs.

In fact, his biggest concern at present was Diagnostic's latest patient, a woman who was currently coding down the hall.

Which was why he was striding rapidly into House's office, prepared to scold his boss until the man got out from behind his desk and actually bothered to _interact_ with the patient he was trying to save.

But when he flung opened the door to Diagnostic's, Foreman was stopped short.

For once House wasn't just lounging with his headphones firmly in place, consulting with his Magic 8 Ball or attempting some new trick with his cane.

He was playing at a keyboard. House had carted the thing to work earlier that day, insisting that since none of his underlings would entertain him properly, it was high time he took matters into his own hands. This meant little to Foreman, and he would have happily interrupted the diagnostician, if he hadn't been so captivated by House's music.

It wasn't the electronic sounds coming out of the instrument that had captured him, wasn't even House himself as he sat at his desk chair, completely concentrated on his playing.

It was the man's hands. How they moved with such precision, such meticulousness and unintended grace. How sure they were as the glided over the keys, how there was no hesitation, no doubt or second thoughts echoed in the tensing of those muscles.

It was how they produced exactly what they had intended, how the product, beautiful although it may be, was nothing more than exactly what had been expected.

It was then that Foreman realized that music wasn't simply an art to House. It was a science.

And science was something Foreman could appreciate.

Just not when he had a job to do.

"Emergency," he said abruptly, causing House to snap his head up and cease his playing. "Come on." Foreman gestured to the door. "They need you."

House gave a longsuffering sigh. "Is anyone dying?"

"Yes."

"Oh, those dying folk," House muttered, getting to his feet. "Always interrupting. You should know about that." He snagged his cane and hobbled to the front of the room, meeting Foreman at the doorway. "Think how far behind I am on the latest internet porn because of you."

Foreman rolled his eyes. "Yes, very sorry about my almost dying interfering with that."

"As well you should be. It's important research."

They saved the woman's life, in the end, and although Foreman didn't need it, she and House's playing only reaffirmed what he already knew.

Science could be beautiful in its exactness, could produce things stronger than religion or faith if given the chance, time, and dedication.

And that was something that House, although cold and callous, could teach him, something that Foreman wanted, needed, to learn.

For a while longer, at least.

---

Of course, had House himself been privy to any of these small revelations on the part of his staff, he would have been quite happy to take the opportunity to mock and ridicule them all. Astounding, prophetic flashes of beauty, faith and science were hardly what he was aiming for when he disappeared for hours at a time to play.

Really, House just wanted to dodge clinic duty.

Cuddy, for one reason or another, was more willing to leave him to his own devices when he was playing a piano rather than when he was watching _General Hospital_ (he could only guess at why. Probably something to do with the ridiculous notion that it was more professional to die to the musical styling of Chopin instead of the sounds of cat-fights), and so whenever he was feeling bored, needed to think without the Scooby Gang waiting anxiously on his every word, or simply wanted to attempt to get out of as many responsibilities as possible, the diagnostician would find a piano.

It was an incredibly easy solution.

Because for House, creating music was effortless. It was calming, peaceful; it cleared his drug-addled mind, slowed his constantly active head and eased his ceaseless pain.

But it was just music. Something that came as naturally to House as breathing, something that he absorbed without exertion and released just as easily, offering no challenges to keep him enraptured with the task.

Not to say that he didn't enjoy playing, because House did. It was just too simple for him to be phenomenal, too basic and ingrained within him for the diagnostician to view it as anything other than a pleasant, mundane, diversion from the ball and chain.

And if, when he was through playing, he felt as if he could walk a little easier, if he suddenly found that last piece that would complete the puzzle of Diagnostic's latest case, or if the hours of clinic duty that awaited him seemed less horrendous, well. It was all easy enough to dismiss.

After all, music was far too effortless to be anything other than ordinary.


End file.
